


What Would God Say

by lightgetsin



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Banter, M/M, Vignette, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-24
Updated: 2003-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightgetsin/pseuds/lightgetsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So God's speechless," Crowley interrupted loudly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Would God Say

“Say,” Crowley said suddenly, “why do you suppose the Metatron is?”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him from over the edge of his glass. The two of them were doing what they did very well, and enjoyed best out of life. That is, they were sitting in the backroom of Aziraphale’s shop, getting drunk and discussing the nature of the universe.

“What do you mean why It is?” Aziraphale asked.

“I mean,” said Crowley, “why does God need him? He is the Voice of God. Can’t God speak for himself?”

Aziraphale blinked again, more slowly. This had apparently never occurred to him. “You know,” he said meditatively, “that is most curious. He…it…is God, after all. He can do anything. Certainly he can speak for himself.”

“It’s really a bigger question, if you ask me,” Crowley said, reaching for the bottle and settling in for a good natter. It is, you see, an entirely false rumor this business about demons being closemouthed. They are, in fact, by and large a gossipy, chatty bunch. You couldn’t tempt a priest to sin the real old fashioned way without everyone knowing within the hour, Crowley thought a bit grumpily.

“What question?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well,” said Crowley slowly. This was one of those times, he was beginning to suspect, when what had seemed so clear in his head would not be nearly so much in his mouth. This happened to him on a regular basis. He had yet to communicate to any being, supernatural or otherwise, why he liked the Bay City Rollers so much. “If you ask me, seems strange God would create the universe at all. I mean, why? If you can create a universe, seems to me you’d already know ahead of time that it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

Aziraphale frowned deeply, and Crowley sighed.

“Forget that,” he said. “What about the Metatron?”

Aziraphale looked as if he would like to protest, but he restrained himself with a polite little sniff. “Well,” he said. “What if God can’t speak for himself?”

“Why not?” Crowley asked, intrigued.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, seeming suddenly a little uneasy. “Oh dear. We’re not supposed to get ourselves into these sorts of conversations.”

“We’re not?” Crowley said, astounded. What the hell had they been doing, then, for the past six thousand years?

“We as in my people,” Aziraphale clarified. “Not we as in you and me.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He wished Aziraphale wouldn’t change the rules on him when he was drunk. ‘We’ almost always meant him and Aziraphale. That was just the way things were. “Why not?” he asked as an afterthought.

“Well,” Aziraphale hedged. “There are certain things we’re not supposed to ask…to think about, even.”

“Like what?” Crowley was intrigued. Censorship, like Milton Keynes, was something he and Aziraphale had both reported as a success.

“You’re tempting me,” Aziraphale said reproachfully.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, almost sincerely. “Can’t help it.”

They lapsed into silence. Crowley sipped the wine and stared thoughtfully at Aziraphale, trying to appear as interested and receptive as possible. Aziraphale shifted with ever increasing restlessness.

“Oh, fine,” he said abruptly. “We’re not supposed to ask what God is, alright?”

Crowley sat back, surprised. “Wonder why that is,” he said.

“Well, if I knew that, I think I’d be allowed to talk about it,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s a good point,” Crowley said, ignoring him. “Perhaps God can’t speak because he’s not something that can. Perhaps he needs the Metatron because he’s too…” he waved a vague hand, “transcendent and all that.”

Aziraphale sunk a little lower in his chair, a gloomy sort of resignation falling over him. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said a bit sulkily.

“Sorry,” said Crowley again, with no sincerity at all. He doubted Aziraphale would really get in trouble. He didn’t think either of them were being watched that closely. “I like the idea though,” he continued. “God is too…God to be able to speak.”

“He can’t be atic…atric…spoken,” Aziraphale agreed. “Because he’s too big.”

“So he has the Metatron to do the translating,” Crowley continued.

“Precisely,” said Aziraphale. “There you are.”

“But then,” said Crowley, who enjoyed a good tempt as much as a good natter, “we get back to the original question. What is God? Is the Metatron part of him, or separate?”

Aziraphale, who had been looking hopeful, slumped again. “Maybe it’s like you said,” he commented after a pause long enough to show his annoyance. “Maybe it’s translation. From God to speech. And maybe some things get lost in the translation, and that’s why the Metatron seems separate-like.”

Crowley poured for them both. You could never be too careful about these things, and he figured even Aziraphale’s people would make allowances for intoxication.

“I suppose,” he said, sipping slowly. “I just keep wondering what God is if he can’t talk.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Not ours to wonder,” he said.

“If you finish that sentence with something about obeying, I would remind you that you saved the world not long ago,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale glared. “Why must you continually bring that up?” he said a bit churlishly. “You continually throw it in my face.”

“Come now,” said Crowley, miffed. “It was a wonderful tempt. One of my best, I must say.”

“Well,” Aziraphale admitted grudgingly, “it was very neatly done.”

Crowley preened.

“Though I only let you think you’d really gotten me,” Aziraphale added smugly. “I just wanted to make you feel good by thinking you’d gotten the better of me. Worked like a charm.”

Crowley stopped preening and scowled. “You did not,” he said.

Aziraphale smiled infuriatingly. “At the bottom of every—“

“So God’s speechless,” Crowley interrupted loudly.

Aziraphale’s mouth closed rapidly, then opened again. This, Crowley knew, was a certainty of the universe, and it was only his eternal optimism that kept him trying.

“Not speechless,” Aziraphale said. “Unspeakable.”

“Eh?” said Crowley.

“It’s like the way it is when you stare out into the ocean,” Aziraphale said. “When you’re a little drunk, you know, and you suddenly feel very…tiny?”

Crowley, who hadn’t felt tiny in twelve hundred years, and was happy keeping it that way, nodded.

“It’s like that,” Aziraphale continued. “It’s not that God can’t talk, it’s that he can’t be talked about. He’s too…much.”

Crowley pondered this. He wasn’t too sure about this ocean business, but he supposed he could get the gist of the thing. He reached for the bottle. Aziraphale, not looking at him, reached as well. Their hands met at the neck, their fingers curling together around the glass. They both looked automatically. Their auras mingled gently, waves of color lapping at each other in a rhythm measured not by their human heartbeats, but by the tidal pulse of the force that made them the beings they were.

Their hands tightened in unison, then released.

“We should…we should sober up, I think,” Aziraphale said a little faintly.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”


End file.
